


Hotter Than You

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bodyswap, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7548037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Dean's waited <em>years</em> to find out what Cas' skin tastes like. And when he finally does, everything goes wrong again, because his life is just that much fun, and <em>goddamit</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotter Than You

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently working on four different things at once, including the DCBB, and I have no idea where this came from. I hope you guys like it. :)

So Dean is a lying liar who lies, but even by his standards, this day is going to be one for the fucking _ages_.

“And you noticed when you woke up?” Sam asks, and, again, he does that frown, like he’s trying not to laugh, because he’s a good brother and wants to be supportive and Dean should definitely remember that the next time he’s about to scrub his armpits with Sam’s toothbrush or something.

(He won’t, though.

Not a chance in hell.)

“Yes,” Dean says, firmly.

(A sigh. A moan. His hands desperately seeking more skin, pressing under Cas’ shirt, almost completely unbuttoned. Looking up in the sudden flash of a passing car’s headlights, and seeing his own face staring down at him.)

“And you don’t remember what you were doing, you know, before?”

“No,” Dean says, even more firmly; and then he adds, for good measure, “Just normal stuff, I guess.”

(Cas standing up, almost stumbling in the unfamiliar body. Cas blushing when he’d realized his fly was undone. Cas looking at him, as if begging him to say something, _anything_ , and then disappearing in the usual flutter of disturbed curtains and papers.)

“Mh,” Sam says, his eyes moving around the motel room before looking Dean up and down. “You’re going to be weird about this, aren’t you?”

“No,” Dean says - 

(How can it _not_ be weird, though? If this had happened at any other time, he’d probably be cursing in exasperation and then giving in to the sleazy, unforgivable, inevitable _curiosity_ \- he’d be undressing himself, discovering what Cas’ body is like - his _body_ , goddammit, because this is not a vessel, not anymore. 

But now -)

\- and, of course, he’s lying again. 

Sam acts like he doesn’t notice that because his arm is still in a cast, and that means that despite his freakish size, Dean could totally take him and Sam knows it. 

(He _did_ get 174 on his LSAT, after all.)

“Well, first thing we gotta do is find Cas.”

“Yeah, thanks, Sherlock - think I haven’t tried that yet? I called him and looked for him and _prayed_ to the damn _bastard_ -”

“We don’t know if Cas is in any shape to be seen or answer calls,” Sam points out, reasonably. “Your body was never made to be his vessel. Maybe it exploded, or something.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Of course, he’s seen Cas standing up and zapping out in his, Dean’s, body, but that doesn’t mean Sam couldn’t be right. That doesn’t mean Cas’ actually okay, and not pink mist on a wall somewhere. That doesn’t mean _squat_. 

Sam sees the expression on his face and backtracks at once - in a very awkward, unconvincing way.

“Which I’m sure would be _fine_. Cas can probably put it back. He did it before, right?”

Yeah. When he raised Dean from literal _Hell_ , and how can Sam be so fucking _casual_ about this - how can he talk about Dean’s body as if it’s nothing, just an _it_ kind of thing that can be discarded and replaced at will -

But thinking about his own body, and what Cas is doing with it right now, and what he was doing with Cas in the first place - that’s something Dean can’t do, so he lets the whole thing slide.

“Dean?” Sam adds, and God, he still looks so goddamn _earnest_ -

“My body was made for the archangel Michael, bitch. I think it can handle a dorky seraph,” Dean snaps, and that’s the complete truth, for whatever it’s worth.

Sam kind of smiles and kind of hums in agreement, then moves to the desk, even if there’s nothing there, and that means Dean can now see himself in the mirror that’s right in front of him.

And, goddammit, Cas looks so _hot_ in his clothes. 

Because, yeah, Dean was not about to stand around in his underwear and wait for Sam to find him, but getting dressed was still, very clearly, a mistake, because his life is unfair and wrong on every level and Jesus fuck, _look_ at the guy - Dean’s jeans are a perfect fit, and the old Grateful Dead t-shirt makes him look different, but _good_ different, somehow; dangerous, but not in Cas’ usual _I’ll smite you right now_ dangerous - more of a _I give the best head in the state but I’ll use my fucking teeth if I fucking want to_ vibe.

“Where do you think we should look?” Sam asks, now fidgeting with his tablet, and Dean turns away from the mirror, because he’s not about to get a goddamn boner when looking at _himself_ \- or, even worse, at _Cas_.

No matter what happened last night.

Which was clearly a mistake, and something Cas now regrets.

If he’s even alive, that is.

Dean clears his throat.

“Well, if he’s in my body, he can’t be in any weirdass place. Like, the bottom of the ocean, or whatever. I mean, can he?” he adds, suddenly nervous, because it’s not even the idea of his own lifeless body sitting down on some rock as Cas talks to lobsters or something - no, it’s thinking about Cas, Cas inside an unfamiliar vessel, Cas lost and lonely and what the fuck even _happened_?

(And why did Cas run away?) 

“I’m sure he can’t,” Sam says, soothingly, and then he hisses when his cast catches on his shirt.

“Okay, that’s it,” Dean says, his mind moving away from the list of _Ways Cas Could Have Died_ for a second and opening the file on _Ways Sam Could Die_ instead. “You’re definitely not going after that witch again, not with your fucking arm broken.”

“Yeah? That means _you_ ’re going after her? Wearing _that_?”

Sam looks at him through the mirror, allows his eyes to travel, in a very pointed and frankly unnecessary way, from Cas’ unruly hair to Cas’ blue eyes to Cas’ chapped lips.

Dean scowls at him and turns away.

They’ve had this discussion once already - or rather, they’ve had a very uncomfortable car ride filled with loud music and heavy silences and careful half sentences (all Sam’s). Dean knows Sam sees this body as nothing more than an _it_ , and he understands, on some level, that Sam’s not wrong, but -

He crosses his arms on his chest, realizes that feels all wrong, scowls at the world outside the window instead.

“You know, it’s really - I think it’s the first time I’ve seen that,” Sam says from behind him after a full minute, and now he’s got his Stanford voice going, and Dean’s irritation goes up another notch.

“What?” he snaps, turning around again.

“Someone possessing a body and not being subtle about it.”

“What? What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

Sam makes some kind of gesture with his uninjured hand, then sees the way Dean is looking at him, lowers his gaze on the tablet, flicks his hair back.

And again, there is that fucking _frown_ \- like this is no big deal, and Cas will definitely turn up, and will swap them back, and they’ll all carry on with their happy, happy lives together and it won’t matter that he and Cas will never get a chance to try that again, to -

“Just, you know. A demon, or whatever - they make an effort. They try to pretend to be the person they’ve possessed. But you - that’s just you.”

“Yeah, I know. Thank you,” Dean says, and he tries to spit the words out, to make them as bad-tempered as possible so it won’t be obvious that Sam’s observation has thrown him.

Which it hasn’t, because that would be stupid.

Because it’s not like Dean’s _trying_ to look like Cas.

Because it’s not like he _couldn’t_.

( _Could_ he?

Hell, he certainly spent enough fucking time _staring_ at the guy - he oughta know his tells by now.) 

He turns his back on Sam again, passes a hand on the back of his neck, feels Cas’ longer hair under his fingers, hisses in annoyance.

“So, if we’re not doing anything about that witch, we should put someone else on the case,” Sam says, after a while, and he’s careful enough Dean knows he won’t like what comes next.

He remains where he is - by the window, staring outside at the empty, Casless road - and waits until the worst of it is out, because one thing he’s not going to do is that he’s not going to make this easier for Sam - the little fucker is clearly enjoying this far too much already, and that’s not fair, especially considering that it’s all his fault in the first place - if Sam hadn’t managed to get his arm broken - if he hadn’t spent the night in the hospital -

“Crowley’s always happy to deal with witches.”

Dean closes his eyes for a second. Yeah, sure. Let’s bring _Crowley_ into this. That will make it all _better_. 

“So call him,” he says, walking back to the bed and getting his jacket.

“I’m not _calling_ him - last time I met with him, he tried to _skin_ me.”

“God, you’re so _touchy_.”

“Hey, he’s your fuck buddy, not mine.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Dean says, and this is his danger voice, and Sam does shut up.

It’s too little too late, though, and Dean walks out.

(Fuck buddy, for Chrissake's. Really? _Really_? He spent a _month_ with the guy. Tops. And they’d been mostly playing pool and fussball.

And fucking other people.

Definitely _not_ each other.

Mostly.)

# ...

Sam still sends a text to Crowley, though, which is how Crowley finds Dean, now on his way to getting really drunk.

Dean sees him walk into the bar, then catches sight of his own reflection in the bar’s windows - a barely there, transparent thing, but still definitely Cas - and looks away.

“Let me guess,” Crowley says, sitting down next to Dean (and much too close, thank you very much). “It's not what it looks like.”

“How did you even know it was me? Does Sam tell you, like, everything? Do you read his blog or something?” Dean asks, which, as questions go, is not particularly clever, but whatever.

“Please,” Crowley says, glancing at him, then looking around for the bartender. “Your keen fashion sense tipped me off. And that glint of intelligence on Castiel’s face - that’s new, too.”

Dean’s too bad-tempered and too drunk to even try and explain why that’s all wrong, so he lets it slide.

“So, Moose was in the hospital, and you were all angry and frustrated and dying for a good fuck, right?” Crowley starts, affably, once he’s got a glass in front of him, and Dean’s about to tell him off when he sees his own face in the mirror behind the counter (or, rather, _Cas_ ’ face, now looking positively smitey and - God forgive him - hot as _fuck_ ) and the moment passes. “And the angel, of course, he doesn’t get it. He wouldn’t get out of the way, and there’s no question of going cruising with him tailing along.”

Crowley says this matter-of-factly, as if he’s been through the exact same thing before, and Dean finds himself in the uncomfortable position of wondering if he has. Three centuries is a long time, after all - more than enough to scratch an itch and give in to the suicidal instinct of finding out what an angel is like in bed.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He can feel Crowley looking at him through the mirror, examining every detail of his face as if filing it all away for later: how Dean looks in someone else’s skin, perhaps, or maybe what an angelic vessel is like when the angel is not there.

And where _is_ Cas, anyway? What the fuck is he _doing_? Dean’s mind’s been through all the options by now - he couldn’t bear to, himself, but knows Sam’s called every hospital, every morgue and police station in a fifty miles radius, and -

“Or maybe it wasn’t a matter of convenience,” Crowley says, at the exact wrong moment. “Love of your life, eh, Squirrel? The other half of your soul? And you never thought you’d have him, and you never knew how to even tell him, but when you found yourselves alone you could no longer resist this - this magic, this pull between you, this love story to end all -”

“Jesus, it was just a _handjob_ , alright? Fucking let it _go_ ,” Dean snaps, and now he’s more than bad-tempered and scared - now he’s almost ready to kill something, and Crowley’s starting to look as good an option as any.

But, yeah, of course he can’t do that, because of REASONS, all capitals and emotional bullshit, which means that admission was a mistake.

He waits for Crowley to go on, but Crowley doesn’t. He signals the waiter instead, gets himself another glass of something that probably costs more than the whole damn Bunker.

“Is that why Castiel disappeared?” he asks, at long last, when Dean can almost kid himself that conversation won’t be happening. “Because it meant nothing?”

Dean’s been asking himself that, and the possibility makes him ache in places he doesn’t even know could hurt, and that’s why he can’t go there, can’t consider even it. Because Cas _has_ to care, Cas _cannot_ leave him, not again, and that’s it.

That’s the way it is.

_You're hoping Castiel will return to you. I admire your loyalty._

_I only wish he felt the same way._

“He just got overwhelmed, that’s it,” he says, and this time he does glance at Crowley, and there’s something so familiar and easy between them - something Sam will never get - Dean still has dreams about Crowley’s voice crooning at him during those first nights as a demon - he remembers how he used to wake up, the world pressing against his face so tightly he couldn’t breathe - a thousand different smells and noises and feelings moving under his skin, distracting him, scaring him, urging him to kill and do it right _now_ , and Dean would gasp and shake and growl, and Crowley’s soft words were the only thing that was _real_ , the only thing -

“Did he?” Crowley asks, almost gently, and Dean shakes his head.

“Hey, I _get_ it. He never really had that. Not with someone who matters, I mean. Not with someone who knows him, who can _see_ him.”

Dean stops, looks down at his glass.

“And sex like that - yeah, that’s fucking overwhelming. Because you can feel it’s not just once, right? You can feel there’s _something_ there, and what if it’s just you?”

The world around them might not even exist at all. Everything Dean is right now: love, worry, crippling fear.

“So, uh, I’m not surprised he - he wanted out of himself. Sometimes, that’s the best option.” 

Crowley sighs.

“You know, my life it was so much easier when I was simply trying to kill the whole lot of you,” he says, in a sort of stage whisper; and then, when Dean looks at him balefully, he adds, “Sorry. I don’t know how that slipped out. What I meant to say is, of _course_ he bloody feels the same way, you _berk_. I can smell it on you both. It’s downright _nauseating_.”

Dean just sits there, but his hand closes a bit tighter around his beer bottle. He’s a hunter, and he’s a trained killer. He considers, and discards, five different ways to attack Crowley before giving up and finishing his beer and slamming it back on the counter.

“Shut up. I never said - I was talking about _Cas_ ,” he says, turning around on his stool, shifting a bit so he can feel the comforting weight of his gun in the back of his jeans.

Which are a bit tight, truth be told, because Cas’ thighs -

 _Do_ not _go there._

_Just don’t._

“Were you? It was _Cas_ who got overwhelmed?” Crowley asks, his mouth curving a little, as it always does when he uses Cas’ nickname. “Was it _Cas_ who felt all that great love, and was afraid you wouldn’t feel it back?”

“That’s what I -”

“ _Cas_ , you mean. The seraph who can see through _walls_ and into your BLOODY _MIND_.”

“I -”

Dean doesn’t add anything to that. He can’t. Crowley drains his glass, stands up.

“Dean, angels can’t possess anyone without specific permission. But _you_ can.”

“ _What?_ ” 

Dean knows he should be really be starting to talk in full sentences again, but that part of his brain is pretty much broken, a little control light blinking its distress, warning Dean it should be fixed before he does something idiotic and crashes into a wall.

Crowley takes a step forward, reaches out, his hand ghosting over Dean’s shoulder; then he bows slightly, seems to - to take a whiff of Dean’s hair, or something, before stepping back again.

“You’re not demon enough to possess just anyone,” he says, as if discussing the weather, and then he adds, a bit regretfully, “Then again, you never were. But there’s still something dark about you, and under the right circumstances -”

Dean clenches his hand around the bottle.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

Crowley smiles.

“I think _you_ got overwhelmed, and - er- spilled over. Happens to the best of us.”

“That’s the _stupidest_ -”

“And your angel didn’t know how to react, panicked, took over your empty body and fled.”

The bottle is empty. Dean knows that, but he still brings it to his lips - thinks the way the evening is going, he could chew right through the glass instead, and hopefully die.

“But he’ll be back. He always is,” Crowley says, somehow making it sound like he’s insulting Cas, because he’s gifted like that; and then he looks Dean up and down, rolls his eyes at him, and walks away.

# ...

When Dean gets back to the motel, he peers into the room before walking in, thinking that if Crowley’s right, and Cas really is there, well, Dean will need a few minutes to breathe before he can face the guy.

All he can see, though, is Sam’s still form on the bed closest to the window. He never sleeps well when he’s wearing a cast, Dean knows, and something aches inside his chest as he watches how carefully his little brother went about things - how he fell asleep on the very edge of the bed, so he wouldn’t roll over in his sleep and land on the broken arm. He learned that by sleeping against Dean’s back that first time he’d broken his arm - that time he’d been five and had jumped from the shed because he was an idiot and didn’t know Batman can’t fly. Dean still remembers how Sam had sniffed and fidgeted that night, his arm still a bit tender, the cast getting in the way - he remembers getting up and pushing his way into Sam’s bed and forcing him to sleep exactly the way Sam’s sleeping now - on his side, the cast falling softly against his chest -

“Hello, Dean.”

“ _Jesus_ , don’t _do_ that.”

Dean’s hand was already on his gun, but, of course, this is Cas, and thank _God_. Dean can take about two seconds of the weirdness - of Cas staring at him, as serious as ever, through Dean’s own green eyes - before stepping forward and hugging him.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” he asks, against Cas’ - well, his own - hair, and does it always smell so _weird_? Maybe Sam was right in making fun of his shampoo.

“I thought,” Cas says, and he doesn’t finish the sentence, and now he’s a bit taller than Dean, so Dean can’t see his face simply by glancing to the side.

He doesn’t need to, though. He knows his own voice well enough.

“Yeah, you’re an idiot,” he says, hugging Cas a bit tighter before letting go.

He still keeps his hand on Cas’ arm, though - the guy’s wearing a jacket he picked up God knows where, but it suits him, of course it does, because Dean’s a handsome son of a bitch and that's just a fact.

 _Of course he bloody feels the same way_ , says Crowley’s voice inside his mind, and Dean smiles, lets his hand travel a bit higher, cups Cas’ cheek, the stubble familiar under his fingers, and yet weird as fuck, because he’s used to feeling that on himself, and this is just wrong.

But it’s also _Cas_ , so it doesn’t really matter.

And last night - yeah, that wasn’t a mistake. Definitely _not_. 

(What it was? Soft and necessary and a fucking long time coming.)

Dean’s thumb ghosts over Cas’ lower lip and Cas frowns, as if trying to figure out what’s going on. And since Cas’ clever, Dean decides to give him no mercy.

Also, he’s a bit too drunk to be subtle, and the guy can take it.

“You know, it might be okay if we never swap back. You’re hotter than me now. I like that.”

There is a pause, and then -

“I was always hotter than you,” Cas says, in his usual serious way, and for a second, Dean almost dares to hope this is actual _sass_ and not -

“My true form is burning blue fire, you know,” Cas adds, and Dean’s thumb presses down a bit more firmly against Cas’ lip.

God, he remembers what it was like to kiss and bite down, right _there_ , and he desperately wants to do it again.

“Burning blue fire, uh?” he says instead, trying to sound like that isn’t indeed the hottest thing he's ever heard.

“Well, not _blue_ , technically. But I doubt there is a human word that can describe the concept. Ancient Armenian comes closer, there was this poet I met once who used to call it -”

And Dean can’t wait another second, so he just does it - he kisses the barbed consonants right off Cas’ lips, because whatever Cas really is, Dean wants it all - those sounds now long dead, and languages of mountains and wide spaces and the weight of his dick brothers inside his mind and wind and time and fucking blue _flames_. Dean loves it all, and he’s just this close to telling Cas, and maybe Cas hears in the flutter of Dean’s heart, because he smiles against Dean’s lips and brings his hands up to cup Dean’s face and thank God Sam had the good sense to go and zonk out because Dean's unravelling very, very _quickly_ and everything will become real embarrassing, real _fast_.

“Does that mean you don’t - regret it?” Cas asks, when Dean starts to lick his neck in a sloppy, urgent way.

“Can’t you tell?” Dean asks, and he was going for flirty, but it comes out a bit different.

Cas’ hands slide down, close firmly on Dean’s hips.

“I can tell you’re intoxicated,” he says. “And sad. And happy.”

“All because of you.”

“I also sense love.”

“ _Goddammit_ , I - it's all because of you, pal,” Dean says, again, closing his eyes and breathing in that smell that’s so uniquely Cas (aftershave and a hint of laundry detergent and that thing you only smell in clean, open spaces, like deserts and mountains); and when he opens his eyes again, Cas is still there, and now he’s just Cas, with his fucking blue eyes and a profile you could cut your hand on.

Dean passes his hands on his own face, just to make sure, because yeah, it’d be really stupid if they ended up both looking the same - and is relieved to find he’s himself again.

He glances to his left, sees the motel sign blinking down at them ( _No Vacancy_ ), looks at Cas again, licks his lips.

“Wanna go for a drive?” he asks, and Cas nods.

“I feel that too,” he says, as they walk side by side in the half darkness. “A bit of sadness, a great deal of happiness. And love.”

Before Dean can say anything to that - and God, what can he even _say_? - Cas adds, “I am not intoxicated, though.”

“Let me work on that, then,” Dean answers, and it’s a damn shame Cas’ not wearing his tie, because Dean’s been daydreaming about yanking on that thing for years - he makes do by grabbing Cas by the front of his shirt instead, and Cas makes a surprised, thirsty sound inside Dean’s mouth as he starts to learn that humans are indeed awesome and there’s more than one way to feel drunk.


End file.
